Broken Clocks
by Hyparova
Summary: It has started as a game. A childish-turned-immoral game, but still. Except time has passed and Spencer doesn't want to play anymore.
1. 11:42 PM

**A/N: Just to let you know: English is not my mother tongue and this is my first attempt in writing a work of fiction in this language. I worked hard to give you a text as "clean" as possible but please let me know if you see any mistakes. That being said, enjoy!**

**Update: For all my Spanish readers, you can check out the translation "Relojes Rotos" made by the amazing Titi25!**

* * *

If she had told him back there, while they were stuck in this tawdry jewelry store with no one but a psycho and his pawn pointing a 9 mm at them, as well as a traumatized employee lying on the floor with a gunshot wound—he sometimes thought about her, wishing she at least got a raise for the extra shift—that they would still be playing this shitty game months after, then, well, that's an understatement to say that he definitely would've laughed at her scared but still lovely face—but let's be honest: cracking a smile wasn't _exactly_ the mood he was into at this very moment.

That's the truth. He'd never have thought this game would become such a regular hit between the two of them, even less so the stressor that would've pushed her to cheat on her husband of seven years with him.

Maybe she just called him, by the bye. Told him how they were all exhausted by this harrowing case in Philly that has seemed to offer nothing but a series of unforeseen developments. "I was just calling to say that I'm thinking about you, and I'm sorry if I don't always reply to your texts, it's not that I don't want to, just that we've been very busy, you know." Yeah, she'd certainly say something along the same lines. That wouldn't surprise him at this point.

Even though it's way past 1 AM, he's not surprised either when his phone vibrates in his slacks' pocket. At this point, he doesn't need to look up to know that it's her about to ask him for the umpteenth time this damned question. Something as regular as clockwork.

"I knew you'd be awake," she starts, her languid voice pulsing through the phone.

He sits at the edge of the bed, legs wide and elbows against knees, waiting for her to go straight to the point. Engaging in any sort of small talk just doesn't seem right, somehow.

"So, Spence… Truth or dare?"

"Dare."

"Hmph, I see quite a pattern these days," she teases him.

"Just spill it, JJ," he says with a sigh, his eyes starting to ache over sleep deprivation.

"Come to my room. And come _equipped_," she emphasizes on the last word.

She hangs up instantly, as there is no need to wait for an answer. He's taken part into her game and, as he's done it since their first play, he'll go as far as it will take him. Even if the pumping adrenaline from the first times has started to fade. Even if he, the genius, has known the right answer from the beginning but has always chosen to remain incorrect.

He's been considering for a few weeks now to put a stop to their relationship, or whatever the word, the label he can use to describe it. They're not _best friends_ anymore, needless to say _siblings_ or _family_. He's been considering going back to what it was before the game, when no one was hurting besides him. When it felt easier to relate to the romantic imagery of the jinxed lover, condemned to keep everything within his limbs, instead of the egoistic home wrecker. That's kind of a stretch.

And talking about that. It is not as if he had never experienced it, as if he had never used his damaged family to rationalize his tormented youth. Otherwise, he could have gotten an excuse, or _sort of_, but he can't even plead ignorance_ (would it even be possible, I mean, isn't it the point of having an eidetic memory?)_. And just because his synapses never give him respite _(damn, couldn't you shut it up for once?) _he pictures his mother, just like that, her mature traits pierced with worry and agitation. A shiver runs down his spin for a second as he realizes, at that moment, that he's thankful for her condition. It's for the best, her Alzheimer's. He doesn't recognize himself so how could she.

Goddamnit. His throat tightens and tightens until he can't bear it anymore. _Fuck_, he's on the brink of collapsing in this barely decorated single room in Northeast Philadelphia and by the time the paramedics recover his inert body, his colleagues will be wondering why their Spencer had a half-empty box of condoms hidden in the layers of his go bag. This can't be happening, he has to do something, anything to stop the constriction. Thank God, his hands finally react to the warning signals his brain has been sending for minutes now and, before he surrenders, his tie loosen up around his neck. Better, much better.

Leaning over the faucet, still panting, he stares at his reflection for a while until it seizes him. The man in the mirror is the same he remembers from thirteen years ago in the bathroom at Groton's police station. Sure, he's changed a lot physically, most parts for the better as his friends often love to recall. But some things don't vary despite the years and these trembling eyelids trying to cover up the mess his pupils are sinking into are just ones of them. He may be clean now, but this woman, she's another kind of a drug. As sweet and hazy as Dilaudid, each shot corresponding to the maximal dose administrable.

And as he wonders, it seizes him too: it's useless to stop, Gideon's not here anymore to put him back on the right track.

So he takes a handle of those bright, squared wrappings, bury them in the bottom of his pants' front pocket, and goes straight to her room.

He's got all the right answers to the test all along but chooses to screw it anyway.

* * *

He doesn't need to knock, nor to whisper her name. She's let the door slightly ajar—it makes him sigh inside, she _should_ know better—, and he just needs to push it open to swoop down on her, stroke her seraphic cheeks with both hands and let his burning mouth roam all over her creamy skin. He could slap himself each time he does this, for irreconcilable reasons. One for fondling her soft flesh in a way his conscience doesn't allow him to anymore. The other for letting her go back to her husband whenever they return to D.C.

They only sleep together when they're away on a case. Not once in his apartment, least of all at her home. Where would they make love, in her marital bed? On the same sofa her kids are used to watching cartoons, a bowl of Honey Nut Cheerios in hand; the very one where her husband savors a Budweiser while blaming and praising and blaming again to the New Orleans Pelicans? Sure some guys would get aroused at the only thought of flouting the rule—and it's also true that between the drugs, prison and now adultery his chances to enter any sort of a good place are considerably threatened—but God forbids they ever go that far. For now, the motel rooms booked by some executives at the BAU will do just fine. For now.

And now JJ rushes her deftly fingers into the hem of his button-down shirt, nearly ripping it apart. A deep sense of longing echoes through her voice as she says _I've missed you, missed you so much, you cannot imagine how much I've missed you_.

"I know," he breathes. "I know."

Of course he knows, he's lived for fifteen years with this lasting feeling buried inside his chest. The realization slows him down, he aches to take his time, just for a few seconds. He grabs her hand, let it hang halfway between their faces, then approaches it to his cheekbone. Nothing's simpler and yet this gesture is what gets him closer to the purest form of easiness. It lasts just for a few seconds, giving him enough time to steady his heartbeat, and in a blink it is gone. As if she's received some sort of signal she closes the gap between them, tangles herself up in his embrace and pushes their bodies onto the bed.

"Do you think I didn't see how you were staring at me all day? All those past few days in Quantico? Damn, Spence, I can't wait anymore. Please, don't make me wait anymore," she begs, her legs pressing against his sides.

He can't refuse her anything, she's aware of it. Knows for a fact he's unable to resist her moans, her blurry vision. To the way she tilts her head down and her eyes up, strands of sandy hair hatching her face, highlighting its most striking features.

How crazy habituation cannot be applied to these features. He's read tons of research on this question; even got invited to a symposium at the University of British Columbia to discuss the characteristics of the concept. Turns out psychologists and neurobiologists agreed on a consensus: the longer and more frequently a stimulus is presented, the more likely habituation occurs. It's scientific, empirically observed, infallible. Considering the fact he's been exposed to her face more or less continuously for the last sixteen years, four months and thirteen days, his sensory receptors should've regulated their responsiveness to the stimulus long, long ago. And still he feels a constant tingling in the lower part of his abdomen each time he's staring at her, those wide and bright eyes shining down on him. Yeah, habituation can be damned.

She leans over his chest, silky hair tickling his nose, and smiles against his lips when she feels the bulge in his pants, his cock getting harder as her tongue reaches further into his mouth. He takes a hold of her face, this damned face he'll never get tired of, presses his fingertips against her scalp and when she clumsily tries to get rid of her blouse he gasps_ no, let me do it_, and sure when he talks like this only she can oblige. Her plain shirt falls on the ground and her bra follows in a trice. As usual, he can't resist following the winding trails drawn by the light stretch marks covering her stomach, wanders back and forth, stops, starts again. When none of them can endure it any longer, he grabs her by the waist to turn her over and contemplate his lover in this new view, her naked chest illuminated by the sporadic red lights coming from the clock placed on the nightstand. It shouldn't flash this way, he could bet she'd switched it off to charge her phone and by the time she'd plugged it in back, she simply forgot to set it up again. This shouldn't bother him, it shouldn't even have crossed his mind in the first place, still he can't help but wonder why those red numbers flicker behind his eyeballs, as to warn him of an impending catastrophe. Something is definitely bound to happen tomorrow at 11:42, otherwise why the trouble?

He's on the verge to nod towards the clock, to ask her what she thinks could occur but instead she mouths _please_ with imploring eyes and furrowed brows and he just can't _stand_ it. Their hands tear each other pants down in concert, it almost looks like a fight, or a choreography, no, definitely like a fight in which JJ knocks down her opponent with some hasty, feverish movements. Once her mission's completed, she concedes only to get exposed to the same extent as he is, match his bare thighs, compare the level of their arousal. Ugh, not as much as she thought.

He's burning for her, don't get him wrong. If it wasn't for this blasted broken clock he'd already be thrusting inside her, damn it, they'd be sweating together, cursing together. He'd love her. He shakes his head, grabs a condom from his pants anyway, unrolls it down his shaft. Fails.

"Shit. Could you, um—could you take care of _this_?"

His face feels impossibly hot, he'd never thought it would once happen with JJ, now she must resent him for being so weak; regret her decision to jeopardize her_ oh-so-perfect _family life, the very one she's spent years building, for someone who can't even offer her a part of himself.

But then she approaches him, a playful smirk growing on her face, and the way she says _anything for you, Spence_, makes his chin slightly quiver for ever doubting her in the first place. She starts by kissing him gently on the lips, then trails down all the way down to his cock, taking all the time in the world when she reaches his collarbone—his soft spot, she'd quickly learned. This feels fantastic and when she goes down again and he senses her grin against his manhood he swears he's on the edge again. His blood rushes to his extremities at the sight of her jerking his cock off, strokes of tongue here and there, and oh God how he blows out so fast now, that is for sure something habituation will never be able to arrogate either. He runs his right hand through her sandy hair, that beloved sandy hair, and just by doing so it takes a pinkish shade, returns to blondes, goes back to pink again. His head's spinning, goddam 11:42 PM what? He goes back and forth into his eidetic memory, searches for any occurrences that could refer to that time of the night. Browse, refine, cross check. Start over.

Oh, that's it. How could he have forgotten it? They were surrounded by clocks and watches back there, now he clearly sees himself checking on the time every few minutes. That's it. It was 11:42 PM when he shot Casey dead in this tawdry jewelry store.

He thought it was over, that night at 11:42, he was sure they were out of danger, done with the constant fear of being the one witnessing the other's brain tissues getting embedded into the grayish carpeted floor. Done with their morbid Truth or Dare game. But who's playing games now?

Her deep breath snaps him back to the moment, back to this reality in which his dick flatten in her hands. Crap.

"Did I do something wrong?" She inquires, a glimpse of culpability in her voice.

"What? No! It's silly, you wouldn't even believe me, it's—it's just the lightning that keeps disturbing me, I'm sorry."

She considers his response for a second before she smirks back at him, "So you telling me that I could get you off in the SUV while on duty and yet a flashing light is bothering you?"

Ah, that's right. He blushes slightly at the recollection and still finds a way to curl up his lips, eyelids closed and teeth out. They were called on a case in Orlando a month ago, their unsub was intentionally letting breadcrumbs behind him after each murder; one thing leading to another they deduced the location of his next target based on those clues. Except Lake Louisa's southeastern shore was so wide they had to dispatch in three different cars to lock down the area, and, of course, Emily partnered him with JJ. And, well, they'd been on stakeout for ages, it was his turn to play and he had wanted to go for something _really_ crazy—the sudden development in his love life was lending him some wings and, at that time, he didn't wake up in the middle of the night _that_ much because of this said development—so, when she had gone for 'dare', he said _I bet you wouldn't be able to make me cum right here, right now_. And so that day, on the outskirts of Lake Louisa, he learned in a firework that it was useless to bet against her.

"I guess you just figured me out." He takes a strand of her hair and tucks it behind her ear. "Please lie down, let me make it up to you."

There's no need to say it twice. Her toes curl up in advance as if reliving the sheer feeling of bliss his tongue and his hands and even his breathes give her each time he goes down on her. He positions himself at the end of the queen-size bed, rubs his fingertips gently against her legs which immediately fold up at the contact. Good. When his lips encounter the inner sides of her knees and wander here, and there, and oh, yes, _here_ again, she becomes short of breath, torn between what's already there and what could come next. Her brows furrow an instant at the thought, uncomfortable at the parallel her mind is drawing up between her lover's kisses and, let's say it, the _fuckery_ their current relationship is. Only the second later his mouth goes up and up and up, biting into each fragment of skin in his ascent, and just by doing so her vision clouds so much she wonders why heaven is always depicted so bright. To hell her inner turmoil.

Below, Spencer feels a hand rigorously running through his curly hair, caressing strands here and grabbing others there. He clings further into her thighs, _it is time_ he thought with delight and she might think it as well as his thumb becomes instantly wet as it sinks into her labial and finds her engorged clitoris. She whimpers louder at each stroke, so loud now he hesitates to slow the pace down; they should be more careful, anyone could hear them, let them know how wrong all of this is. Convince them to stop. Yes, that they should. _You know they should; you know _you_ should. No matter how much you want to go on, this is wrong. Wait, you sure this is _really_ wrong?_

Yet it feels so right to touch her, lick her with vigor as if his mental sanity was at stake. So right to witness her legs shaking, to hear her saying _don't stop baby, this is so good, please don't stop, yeah, just like this, don't you ever stop,_ like a song put on repeat. He can't suppress a muffled groan from escaping his lips; _oh my_, yes that may be wrong but how could he ever stop? Her pelvis rises under his grip, he pushes her pussy deeper into his mouth as she cries his name in staccato and when five, no, six seconds later her bottom falls again on the mattress, he knows it's over.

He takes a few moments to recollect composure—breathe in, breathe out—, wipes his mouth with a single motion on to the white sheets and finally rejoins her at the bed's head. She seems so at peace with her whole naked body stretched like a cat's; if it wasn't for her flushed cheeks and strands of hair stuck by droplets of sweat, he would have sworn she'd already fallen asleep. He feels pretty worn out too, he wishes he could let go and take some rest in her arms, just for once. He'd be dreaming, that's for sure. His mind wouldn't bother to invent some crazy scripts in which he would successfully catch the Chameleon or, in a whole another genre, would hijack the I–95 traffic to get on time to attend his own wedding or witness his first child's birth or whatever. No, he'd simply dream of a meta-reality in which he'd be sleeping in her arms, this time in D.C. in a place of their own. His forehead creases: somehow the Chameleon scenario sounds more plausible.

Maybe his thoughts were too loud and that's why she's getting out of drowsiness. She stretches some more towards him as to soothe him; covers his chest with her left arm, her nipples brushing against his ribs.

"Did I tell you I missed you?" She asks with a light-hearted, genuine giggle.

"You did. Four times, actually."

"Oh yeah? You know I never really remember much afterward. Anyway, a whole week without that tongue of yours felt like torture. Thank God they booked single rooms this time."

He settles for a soft chuckle, still uneasy about the erectile dysfunction he'd experienced but also grateful she didn't bring the subject up for discussion. Before he can contain it a deep, long yawn breaks free from his mouth. Yeah, he really is exhausted. It might be past 2 AM now—he's tempted for a second to verify this assertion on the alarm clock but the flickering light on his peripheral vision prevents him from doing so—and he really should get going if he doesn't want to raise any suspicion in the morning. He straightens, swiftly drags himself out of her grip and scoops up his clothes scattered on the floor. Her bra's outermost set of hooks got hitched into the hem of his button-down shirt, after a few clumsy attempts he eventually succeeds to untie them without tearing neither apart.

When he's finally fully clothed and ready to go back to his room, he hears her say, "Stay with me."

It's not a question. She's straightened too; her eyes are no longer clogged by clouds of endorphins. This is so unsettling. She's never asked him to stay before.

He takes a breath. "You know we can't, there could be a breakthrough at any moment." She still doesn't flinch. "Look, I'd love to, really. But imagine if Emily shows up at the door and sees us like…_this_. It wouldn't be a game anymore."

Her brows furrow slightly at the word 'game' and he wonders if, maybe, he's just hurt her by saying it. That's the truth, though. This game has been the only thing that keeps them secluded from what they're really doing. It's a way to distort the reality; let's say someone was about to call them out about their adultery, then they'd just have to reply, in an offended way _of course_, that they've only been playing a game. A terrible, perverse game. But still.

"Alright, you made a point. As usual," she finally says.

She sinks back into the sheets, hugs the pillow with both arms. It's time to go. One last glance at her dazzling figure and he walks straight to the door, head down.

"Wait, you didn't take your turn."

He faces her again. "Excuse me?"

"Your turn, you know, as your 'Truth or Dare' turn. You're so eager to shoot back a question usually. Go on, ask it."

It's like his stomach just opened in two, absorbing all the bacteria from the non-sterilized environment. She might repeat she loves him, the truth is she can only express it behind closed doors, whether in the dampness of their hotel rooms or in the heat of the action while on the field. No matter what she might think, it has always been a game for her. No more, no less.

"I'm not really inspired right now. Maybe another time."

And he exits the room, its comforting smell, its disturbing clock. Maybe another time.


	2. 1:17 PM

At his third cup of watery coffee, this morning at 8 o'clock, Spencer's synapses finally started to function at their usual pace.

Lucky him because when David—whose last vestiges of his shortened sleep materialized in a couple of bloody speckles in each eye—stormed into the Philadelphia Police 15th District headquarters at 8:09, complaining to anyone who would listen how he was dreaming the best dream which—_alas!_—was suddenly cut short by some woman's moans and how, irritated as he was about not being able to return to this elating lethargy, he had spent the rest of the night playing at some dumb, addictive and somewhat expensive games on his phone; well, the least Spencer could think was that, after such a tirade, he was glad the coffee had given him sufficient strength to lie to his colleague's face as he said, pointing to his streaming mug, "No need to tell me, Rossi. I guess we just spent the exact same night."

JJ, who was spry as ever in spite of the single shot of caffeine flowing through her veins, embarked upon her lover's tale by saying, "Do you remember the brunette we passed at the hotel's reception? It was her and her girlfriend. And, well, turns out they were in the room next to mine. Guess who's got the front-row seat!" When her statement was received with some "Ouuutch," "I knew it!" or other "My poor JJ, I sympathize"… Spencer understood that their secret was still far from being exposed.

That was for the main event of the morning. It's 11:30 AM now and Luke, JJ and himself are standing around the corpse of the latest victim, whose only mistake had been speaking to the wrong person to get her drugs.

"Strangulated with fresh marks of injections on the left forearm, just like the others," Luke sums up, his eyes still inspecting the body. "I don't know about you guys but the more we're chasing this unsub, the more it reminds me of this case we had in West Savannah. What d'you think?"

Both JJ and he instinctively take a step back at the mention of the case, before exchanging an alarmed stare. A stare which, of course, Luke couldn't miss. He snickers nervously, intrigued by the mimicry in his colleagues' body language. By the unspoken words.

"Did I say something wrong?"

JJ clears her throat first, "No, I didn't think about this but it could be a lead, actually. Shall we look for a copycat?"

"I don't think so," Spencer replies. "Sure, there are similarities such as victims being killed in the cities' cloistered areas or drugs acting as a catalyst… In Georgia, though, Taylor French murdered former drug addicts and there were no marks of strangulation whatsoever, only O.D. But I agree, it's still troubling… We should notify the team anyway."

While Luke's moving a couple of yards away to speed dial Emily's number, JJ gives the quickest glance to Spencer.

"That was a close call," she says under her breath.

"And that was a nice catch," he shoots back in the same husky tone.

He lets them walk past him when Luke comes back with the direct order to regroup at the police station. He shouldn't stare at her that much during workdays, it is too far perilous—even suicidal considering the agitated night everyone's heard of. Yet he can't stop his eyes from fixing upon her athletic figure, observing the way her heels hit the asphalt with confidence step after step, watching her blond hair twinkling in the sunlight as if it's caught fire. He's got it bad. So bad it is like his doubts from the evening before had never crossed his mind. _Damn, why am I always backpedaling? Going anticlockwise? _

And so he goes. See, the big thing with West Savannah a.k.a. _the-city-that-cannot-be-named-except-if-you-want-to-make-these-two-shiver_ has nothing to do with Taylor French. Despite the horrors his hands inflicted to the five persons he murdered—all recovered addicts of Fentanyl moving forward in their lives to eventually being killed by a fatal dose of the said drug, because, in his wicked mind, what has once been rotten_ (sigh) _will always be rotten_ (sigh intensifies)_—French was only one of the thousands names stocked on Spencer's gray matter, likely somewhere between Mrs. Holloway—his music teacher in 6th grade—or Elfrid Williamson—an inmate released three days after his arrival at Milburn. Because, see, the big thing with West Savannah has more to relate with what happened around the case than the case itself—just like this academic article on Holodomor he read over and over because the footnote on page 32 gave a whole another dimension to the entire historiography. See, while French was brought to Coastal Transitional Center, JJ and him were making love for the first time.

Oh, that didn't come from nowhere. After all, one could argue they've had more than fifteen years of history._ It would be daring to say we had sex on the first night_. No, let's just say that despite what they wanted to firmly believe, everything _wasn't_ okay. This outcome was so foreseeable it could have been smelt from miles away, others could argue, but they had tried, oh God, they had tried! For two weeks, they had acted like nothing had happened. They were just two agents who had to find an ingenious way to save their lives during a hostage situation. Nothing less, nothing more. Everything was _sort of_ fine.

JJ cracked first, though. When she had approached him one morning during a coffee break, asking him in her innocent voice, "Hey, Spence, truth or dare?", he knew the fragile equilibrium they had been building wouldn't last one more day. He couldn't answer the question, not when they had been avoiding the topic and its underpinning implications like the plague. But she had insisted. She'd said, "Come on Spence, you know how it works. You took your turn last time, now it's my time to play. What are you afraid of?", and the truth is she would have sounded almost convincing if it wasn't for her twitching lips. She was as panicked as he was. But now you might know Spencer, and you might have figured out that he's incapable of watching her suffer. So he'd mumbled "Dare" and it was sufficient for her eyes to shine with a new fire. "Great! I dare you to bring me a Starbuck caffè latte every morning for a week." That was it. And that was enough for him to understand it was the coping mechanism her brain had been developing for weeks, ultimately privileging it to their status quo: somehow, it was better to associate new memories with this catchphrase, rather than dodging it entirely.

So he complied. It had been weird enough not addressing the elephant in the room and, to be honest, he had also been searching for a way to deal with The Big Revelation™. And it kind of helped him, actually. When she'd say "Dare," he'd come back with, "Impress me with a magic trick." When he'd reply "Truth," she'd ask, "What is the most useless piece of knowledge you know?" And so on. It felt so good to _act_ like best friends again, to laugh together, surprise each other. Luke or Tara, sometimes entertained, sometimes exasperated by their childish game, would often ask them, "How old are you? Forty or fourteen?" And that was it. They were just friends, therefore there was never any innuendos or tricky questions or flirty dares. He knew she wouldn't leave her husband for him and he would prefer to die than being the one to cause her family to break apart. And let's pretend they'd be together in an imagined future, then they'd do it by the book. After weeks of reflections and discussions with their sons, Will and she would agree on a divorce. When they'd officially be separated, he'd pick her up for a date. And, after some more time, he'd finally ask her to become his girlfriend. That would definitely be the perfect scenario. No cheating in any way, shape or form.

Soon the team was called to Savannah, Georgia. Not the most gruesome case—no signs of sexual assault or harmed children or dismembered bodies—but it involved drug abuse and, although he had called it quits thirteen years ago and never relapsed since, it was sufficient to trigger him. At first glance, it looked like their unsub was so infuriated by people who succeeded in overcoming their addiction for Fentanyl that he was punishing them by luring and giving them the final shot. They were left to die on wastelands outside of the city with no one to prevent their nails to turn blue; to hear the choking sounds coming out from their throats nor their erratic breaths which would soon tend towards silence.

He too had wished to stop breathing. Even though it was thirteen years ago, it seemed to him it was only yesterday after watching the pictures of those dead bodies. And once again, more than a decade after experiencing the feeling for the first time at Groton, he thought _I know what they've been through before dying. _

Worried glances from his colleagues slipped over him throughout the investigation, JJ's being the heaviest. While queuing for a snack on the first day, he'd warned her, "You can't stop staring at me this way, JJ. I'm fine, I promise."

"Not to me, Spence. Not to me."

He'd folded his arms across his chest, sighing. He knew her too well: she'd never surrender. A trait he despised as much as he treasured. "What do you want to hear, then? Yes, this case hits home to me; yes, whenever I watch the victims I think it could as well have been me. That's it, and to me, that's well enough."

He should've known by then that unpredictability was another of her traits, especially since The Big Revelation™. Still, he was taken aback when she'd approached her hand to his face, gently stroking his cheekbone with her thumb. "I just want to hear the truth," she'd whispered.

He should've never leaned on her palm. He should've never closed his eyes, never have taken this big breath and held it. He'd promised to himself: _I would never do something that could turn my godsons' lives upside down_. But he also had just admitted another truth: _It could've been me on those pictures. _

It could still be him. His nails could still turn blue; choking sounds could still come out from his throat; his erratic breaths could still tend towards silence. More importantly, he could die without having the guts to free himself from his inner vow.

Damn.

"Then ask for it," he'd finally replied.

His skin felt suddenly cold when she'd shoved her hands back on her jeans pockets. He'd soon learn that this gesture, as tender and soothing as it was, would never last.

"Alright," she'd sighed. "Spence, truth or dare?"

"Truth."

He locked his eyes on her lips, both craving and fearing the words to escape from this sumptuous shape.

"Good afternoon. What would you like to eat?"

He slightly startled at the sound of the waitress' voice. For a minute he'd been projected in one of his four imagined futures, far, far away from the inextricable situation this present was holding. He shook his head in denial: what did he think could happen? _Nothing can come out from this, dammit Reid, you know it!_

As if nothing had occurred, JJ ordered the team meals—grilled chicken sandwiches for Matt, Tara and herself; a vegetarian burger for Emily; bacon and egg bagels for the three remaining male agents_ (I'll take a coffee too. With lots of sugar, please)_—and it wasn't before the employee had retreated in the kitchens that she looked at him again. It was giving him the chills again as her wide pupils made a statement on their own: they were done playing games. She wouldn't ask him any questions. Not today.

Neither did she the following day. It had to wait for the very end of the investigation—after they'd caught French needle in hand, ready to inject a lethal dose in a pregnant woman's forearm—, for her to finally acknowledging him. Collapsed into the easy chair of his hotel room, drained by the aftereffects of the case, Spencer would've already fallen asleep if it wasn't for the blaring car, parked at the bottom of his window, which was playing _Southernplayalisticadillacmuzik_ at full volume—_yes_, the team repeated work trips to Atlanta had achieved the feat to get him familiar with Outkast's music. He wondered for a second if the knocks he'd seemed to hear were an integral part of the song's instrumental but brushed the thought away as he'd realized it didn't match Big Boi's flow. Not without trouble, he managed to extricate himself from his inertia to open the door.

Here she was. As beautiful as a dream.

"I just wanted to check on you before I crash out. Can I come in?"

"Be my guest," he replied, moving aside.

She advanced with catlike stealth into the room—a prowess considering the kitten heels she'd put on—and stood against the windowsill.

"I see there's no disparity in the room's insulation," she joked.

"I'd hoped yours were better than mine. Right now, I wouldn't mind resting for a few hours."

As the words escaped from his mouth, both of them realized the double entendre they could hint. A misunderstanding that would never have occurred just a few weeks ago.

"Not—Not that I implied that I would… Whatever," he stammered.

She gave him a weak smile before turning back her eyes towards the street lights. "Georgia has never seemed to offer the best to us, uh?"

She snickered a bit at her witticism but quickly fell dead silent when she understood she wouldn't receive any sort of acknowledgment for it. Instead, he watched her biting her bottom lip, her eyes shutting down as she did so.

"Well, that certainly wasn't the smartest thing to say. I'm sorry, maybe–maybe I should go," she said heading towards the door.

"Wait, wait. JJ, look at me," he said, touching her chin with the tips of his fingers. "It's nothing, I promise. Thank you for caring about me, really. I appreciate that."

"You know I always will. It's not like I could control it, anyway," she chuckled sightly, her irises still facing the carpeted floor.

This conversation brought a sense of déjà vu. They had already discussed it, the last time—_how ironic!_—just instants before he was kidnapped by some members of a cult. Since, he'd learned she loved him, not like someone loved her best friend or her little brother. No, she loved him like two oppositely charged particles which kept attracting each other. Like Meghan loved Harry or like Anna Karenina loved Count Vronsky—well, _maybe_ that wasn't an appropriate comparison.

His chest heaved as he took it all in, completely embracing this new truth for the first time.

"I know," he breathed. "I know."

She finally stared up at him, her ocean eyes going back and forth between his messy hair, expecting pupils and three days stubble. His mouth dried as he wondered if she was about to kiss him and his face reddened a bit as he asked himself how he would react if she actually did it. When a minute passed by and she still hadn't made any move, he motioned towards one corner of the room.

"I don't know about you, but I know for a fact that I'll never be able to sleep with all this racket. So I guess it's a good time to enjoy what the minibar has to offer, isn't it?"

"Sounds good," she said with what he perceived as a coy smile.

At their first glass of bourbon, the atmosphere was still awkward. Small talk peppered with deep silences and fidgety legs. At their second, though, it started to loosen _more_ than a little. As the music grew louder, he had bragged about knowing by heart all the lyrics from the album and, in response, she simply stared at him up and down for a moment. On the one hand, she'd known for years it was useless questioning the power of his eidetic memory—she had seen too many people hit a brick wall on trying to prove him wrong. On the other hand, she simply couldn't picture him reciting some 90's hip-hop lyrics with his high-pitched and pompous voice. She giggled automatically at this thought. Well, it was decided, she couldn't miss seeing this. So here he was, blurting out in canon _Player's Ball_ lyrics with acute precision, skipping only the offensive words, her hysterical laugh serving as accompaniment. His mouth felt dry once he finished but he resisted the urge to take another gulp of his drink. Although he was still entirely conscious of his comings and goings, he couldn't prevent the alcohol to bind to his brain's GABA receptors.

He enjoyed the last bits of her good-naturedly laugh before it faded away. Making her laugh, that was definitely what he loved the most. He wouldn't let anyone stop him from doing so.

"Two days without playing truth or dare feels like eternity. No wonder Casey loved it, this thing's kind of addictive once you've started," he admitted.

"Well, I haven't really had the opportunity to take my turn."

He would later blame the booze for what he was about to say. But he knew too well it was only a subterfuge; the only pretext to appease his conscience. _Deep down, that's the only thing you've ever really wanted. Don't stop yourself from doing it. _

"I'm all ears."

That was it. He might have caught her off guard considering the startled look she was giving him. She cleared her throat, though, her firm tone prevailing over her initial hesitation.

"Tell me something you never said to me before."

His fingers tensed around his glass. That was something _thinking_ about it, _considering_ acting on it. But that definitely was a whole other thing confessing it aloud.

"There's no need to say it. You–You already know what it is."

"Please, say it. I need to hear it. Spence, please…"

She grabbed his shoulder as she said so. With her creased forehead, her pleading eyes, it was as if the moment of sheer enjoyment they just shared had never existed. It was funny how she looked similar to Henry each time he tried to coax him for a McFlurry during their godfather-and-godson excursions. He had no desire to laugh, though. This vision was another manifestation of his subconscious to prevent him from breaking his promise. _It is not only about the two of you. There are Henry and Michael and Will. Think about them. _

Thinking about them, that's what he did. He had to seize his last chance of making use of his Cartesian mind. However, if after that she was still pushing for it, well, then…

"Look, we're friends. I love our friendship, I love your family. I wouldn't ruin it, not even for—"

"I love you," she cuts him off. "You asked me if I meant it and yes, I love you. I–I thought I could erase it, go back to the way it was before telling you. But I can't do it, I tried but I can't do it. I'm sorry… I love you, Spence."

Oh. He couldn't say what he'd been expecting but it certainly wasn't _this_. His heart galloped as he proceeded the sense of her declaration. They were alone this time, with no hostage situation to handle, no gun aimed at their heads. Just the two of them sat in a hotel room with her having the gut to confess—again—her love for him. He shook his head frantically to get rid of the boiling agitation that was taking over his whole being.

"I don't want to break your family…"

"I don't want either. But I also know that I want this. Too much."

She gently touched his cheek with the back of her hand and—again—he leaned on it. They'd reached the point of no return. Unless…

"JJ, truth or dare?"

"What?"

"Answer me. Truth or dare?"

"Dare," she replied, never lowering her gaze.

He inhaled sharply. "Get out. Because if you choose to stay, I promise I will never be able to go back. It's up to you."

Yes, that was what he came up with. He hadn't found the courage to make the decision by himself and had preferred to delegate his conscious's weight on her shoulders. _That was the right thing to do. _But when he looked at her, her eyes shone like blue jewels and it was too much to bear that he chose to close his eyelids instead. And just by doing so, it started to sting just a bit between his shoulder blades, like a needle slowly puncturing his flesh. _Would it be possible…? Come on Spencer, you're losing your mind, you know no one's going to drug you. _Still, the sensation was unpleasant enough to focus all of his attention on it. When he turned around to check what was happening on his body, he could have sworn Casey was standing right there, his annoying smirk plastered on his face, his agitated voice echoing in the room: "When you want to play some games, you have to go as far as it takes you." A shiver ran through his body, he was ready to stand up, directly confront the hallucination. JJ chose this moment to grab his face and kiss him hard, fever leaking through her lips. And just then he was gone.

Now that she had tested to his lips, it was like she was eager to continue, to push further. She put both arms around his neck as if to remove any blank spaces between their faces, engulfed her fingers into his chestnut hair as if to never take them back. God, that was something he'd never experienced before. Sure he had shared some passionate kisses with Lila or Austin, but nothing like _this_. He pulled her into his lap, his hands roughly caressing her back, not even hiding from their attempts to go under her shirt. Their tongues tingled, exploring each fragment of their mouth and letting them out of breath. As if they even cared. He'd been dreaming for this moment to happen for so long it felt unreal. His stomach trembled as his heart hammered, he wanted to answer her question so bad, finally tell her the truth: of course he was in love with her. Always been. But he wouldn't say it, though. Somehow, now wasn't the fair occasion to pour his heart's out.

It was when she pressed her body against his groin that he realized he was completely hard. He tried to apologize but, as she rolled her pelvis with some sort of despair and pushed him onto the bed, she didn't let him any chance. When she finally abandoned his hair, it was only to plunge into his chest, her fingers furiously unbuttoning his button-down shirt. He stopped her half-way.

"Are you sure?" he asked, panting.

"Spence," she looked at him in the eyes, "I stayed."

She'd chosen him, at last. He brought a shaky hand to the back of her neck and buried his face on her hair. She smelt so good—a fresh scent of orange blossom with muted vanilla tones—that he wished her fragrance would get encrusted on his pores forever. The citrusy smell was galvanizing him, encouraging him to show some bravado and that was why he started licking her neck with fury, tasting her skin _here_, nibbling it _there_, her moans acting as the ultimate motivation to pursue his feast.

A few minutes had passed and they both still had most of their clothes on. An abnormality JJ corrected with a sense of urgency: she took off her ocherous shirt, offering him a low-angle view on her lace balcony bra. _It was definitely worth the wait_. And when she untied it, oh my, it was as if he had just unlocked the mystery of dark matter. He ached to touch her boobs, to suck her nipples but instead she lay down on him, finishing her mission initiated a bit earlier to get rid of his shirt. The second she was done, she plunged down on him, returning him the favor. Her kisses were less reckless than his; they were as delicate as the peachy powder blush she applied every day on her cheeks. Inches by inches, she went down on his chest and when her lips brushed against his collarbones, he couldn't suppress a loud groan to escape from his mouth.

"I've wondered for years where your soft spot could be. Guess I finally got my answer," she giggled a bit.

He made the most of her sudden absent-mindedness to grab her and take her over because, although he felt intoxicated by her kisses, he couldn't wait any longer to finally explore her breasts. He took a hold of them, kneading them with tender, savoring them with vigor. Her body trembled beneath him as she said over and over "God, Spence, this is too good, too, too good," and he had to stop at one point because he was convinced he was on the verge of exploding.

"I don't know how much more I can wait," he whispered.

She straightened a little. "Just give me a second."

His heart pounded against his ribcage, _that's over_, he thought, _she realized this was all a mistake_. She pulled her hair away from her face before extracting her wedding ring from her left hand and leaving it on the nightstand. The same ring he witnessed Will put on her finger years ago as they promised to always remain faithful to each other. Sounded like eternity.

Then, she unbuttoned her black jeans and let it slip over her milky legs, her azure panty the only remaining piece of clothes covering her women's parts. He took a moment to finally make a move as he was mesmerized by the beauty of her body. His gaze went back and forth all over her silhouette, scrutinizing each and every cell of it, memorizing it forever.

"Okay, I'm ready now. I love you," she finally said.

He could have cried by then, for real. Years and years of caring, delusions, friendship, loneliness, love; all of this converging into one moment. Breath in, breath out. _Let's go_.

He took off both his pants and boxers with shaking hands, grabbed a condom from the nightstand's drawer and slowly unrolled it on his shaft. She followed his lead, removed her panties and slightly opened her thighs, a hand resting on his backside.

The time had never felt more _right_.

They made love while _Southernplayalisticadillacmuzik_ was banging through the night.

* * *

When the SUV's engine is abruptly turned off and the police station's building materializes before his eyes, Spencer realizes he's been daydreaming during all the ride back. Although the recollection of this night still warms up his heart, he is now certain a change has to occur: he can't let the dead dictates their comings and goings through a game anymore. Even if that means he has to lose her—_just another term to say_ _everything_.

Once reunited in the conference room, Luke's the one who discloses what they've found from the crime scene, everyone religiously listening to him. And once again, Spencer cannot help but stare at JJ, at the way her gaze wanders through the pieces of evidence, her hands unmindfully playing with her wedding ring. She's never taken it off since their first night together.

"Spencer, you're with us?" Emily asks.

He jolts slightly, taken aback by her remark. Even though he succeeds to go one further in the conversation, adding elements only he can come up with, he notices the creased looks from his colleagues. _That's not good. We've been playing with fire for too long that now we're exposing ourselves to flashbacks. _

They wrap up the meeting and head towards their new tasks. Before sinking into the maps of Northeast Philadelphia's neighborhoods, he takes a quick look at the time. The wall clock displays 1:17 PM, giving him a few hours to tell her his decision. Tonight the game will be over.

She waits for him outside the conference room, with a small smile on her face that is unable to hide the concern her eyes convey.

"You've been surprisingly quiet during the drive back. Everything's alright?", she asks.

"I've just been thinking, you know, West Savannah."

"Oh, West Savannah."

"Right."

"Right."

* * *

**A/N: I am a huuuuge fan of Outkast and Isaiah Rashad and both "West Savannah" songs inspired me a lot so that's for the reference :)**  
**I'm writing the following chapters (this is a short story so there are—I think—two chapters to go), it might take *some* time for an update but I'll do everything I can to post it soon. Do not hesitate to post your thoughts as well!**


	3. 12:01 AM

By the time the sun sets over the East Coast, casting orange shadows like inferno on the urban jungle, the team has finally identified their unsub and proceeded to his arrest. No correlation with Taylor French at last, except for their shared scorn for drug addicts.

When the darkness has absorbed all the light from the sky and the moon shines bright through the curtains, Spencer cups JJ's face with both hands while thrusting inside of her. Maybe that's the fact that their investigation is over and they're safe for now; or maybe that's the fact that he swept away this shitty alarm clock and its fucking flashing light at the same time he removed her underwear that is giving him back stamina and self-confidence in bed. Maybe that has everything to do with this or nothing at all.

Maybe that's a fact that he knows that might be the last time they're making love.

Whatever. He'll have all the time in the world to lament or absolve from this outcome in a few minutes. For now, all that matters is to push further and faster—wait, slow down a bit, enjoy the view and this delirious, tight feeling while it lasts. Done? Good. It is then the appropriate opportunity to change position, pick up the pace again, listening to her husky breaths mingling with his throaty groans like a romantic symphony.

Pause. Press play. Put on repeat.

What a _perfect_ moment.

She's on top of him now, and it's as if their original soundtrack places itself at the service of the most exquisite footage ever recorded. Moving as a movie star, he fingers the sinuous light lines on her belly, then grabs onto her hips' adipose tissues that he likes so much. _Go higher, higher, higher…_He captures her boobs with his hands and his mouth, nibbles her tits with care and despair. _Go higher, higher, higher…_ He caresses her cheeks while she rides him with force, drops of sweat running from her forehead and adductors cracking under the strain of effort and pleasure. Looks like she's done getting higher as she bends further onto his chest, her nails harpooning his flesh in the process. Still, he goes higher, higher and higher and strokes, twists, pulls her hair until his head hits heaven's floor and he cannot go higher anymore. One last thrust from his side and the condom fills with sperm, even though a growing part of him wishes there was no artifact between their reproductive organs.

Don't be too harsh with him. That's the truth. Although he loves his godsons as if they were his own, he's been dreaming for a while now to one day hold a child made with his own flesh and blood. No matter how shitty his genes can be, hers would prevail and create the most perfect human being who ever lived—at least to his eyes. And it's not even like if it were a utopia, something so far-fetched you could think some schizophrenic symptoms were finally showing. No, it could still happen and he has all the scientific input to support his ideal: on the one hand, male fertility starts decreasing only at age 40 and, except for his overconsumption of sugary coffee and relative lack of exercise, he's healthy enough to pass all of the demanding FBI physical tests. On the other hand, JJ's health condition isn't even up for debate—she still has a top-notch body after having two kids—and, in spite of what the majority of doctors persist to think, getting pregnant after forty is far from being unrealistic and risky.

All of this, plus the fact that they're in love with each other so, why not.

He rolls into his side, get rid of the filled condom and throw it into the trash can. He'd never really thought about this automatic, unconscious gesture before, but now that he knows it's certainly the last time he's doing it—and not because they'll finally start to conceive a child together, but rather because she'll definitely dump him for her husband in a few instants—he's suddenly getting all morose and melancholic.

Yeah, why _not_.

Just when he shrinks within himself she stretches out her arms and gets up with bouncy stride, her facial features relaxed with endorphins and her hair damped from their bedroom workout. She bends down to her go-bag, her fair skin now translucid as it reflects the moon's light, and grabs the interior mist she likes so much.

"This smell combined with yours is _so_ comforting. Plus, it brings me many good memories when I spray it at home," she says while scattering hundreds of droplets of bamboo and white lotus in the air.

She sways back to the bed like a she-wolf, the fan above their heads swirling all of the scents of the room with each other, making his brain leaping and his heart dancing the Macarena. He's never dared to admit to her that her favorite_ parfum d'intérieur_ has always given him nausea. What a dumb move from both parts.

When she wraps herself up under the blanket, her legs entwined into his and her sandy hair tickling the hollow of his neck, his heart starts beating faster and faster and it is as if all of the bad signs that have surrounded him for the last two days had never existed. So, when she encircles him a little longer than usual, her naked body shaking up all of his senses all over again, Spencer cannot help himself to place a tender kiss on the top of her head. Just like this, in the glimmer of the night, they almost look like a couple. Almost.

She lets out a long sigh, wriggles slightly, and suddenly all of his insecurities punch him back in the face. _How naïve of me to think a kiss could erase it all._

"Please, tell me you're staying this time," she says, her big blue eyes imploring him.

"I don't know. Not for long, I guess."

"Come on, what's your excuse this time?" she asks, chuckling in spite of herself. "We heroically arrested our bad guy and we're flying back to D.C. first thing first tomorrow morning… I promise we won't get caught so, really, what is holding you back?"

"And you, what is holding you back?"

He didn't plan to say it _that_ harsh, in his head the subtext sounded more like "oh, I won't deny that I have some issues but I don't think I'm being the only one. And, you know, this is perfectly normal because, as Sartre would write, anguish comes from the understanding of our own freedom of choice, as well as the emotional burden we're placing on ourselves due to the lack of structure and discipline this situation conveys in our lives. Why do we have to make a big deal of it then?"

Of course she doesn't understand it this way. Instead, he feels her brachioradialis muscle tensing against his slim abdomen, her head leaving the comfort of his shoulder and her eyes wandering on their axis. It is dead calm for a minute, maybe ten, and he's so glad to hear the fan spinning above them and some snippets from _Matrimonio all'italiana_—that no one except Rossi would have the sane idea to watch at full volume—because his thoughts would make him crazy otherwise. The movie unfolds through the wall and he can recognize the famous scene in which Filumena Marturano resigns herself to leave her flinching husband and says in Italian, "the problem is that our hearts used to be so big, and now look how small they are." Damn, looks like even Sophia Loren is trying to send him a message across.

"You do not sound like yourself these days," she finally points out.

That's evident, just as the fact that 22/7 is greater than π or that 210 stars have exploded simply during the timeframe you've taken to read this sentence alone. But once again, he can't stop himself from being on the defensive—from trying to denying the obviousness. "What is this supposed to mean?"

"Nothing, forget it," she deflates with a sigh. "I just want to enjoy the few moments I can spend alone with you. Who knows when will be the next time we'll be able to share a room together…"

She closes her eyes and cuddles him more as she lets her words sink into his psyche and, when she eventually puts her head back against the pillow instead of his chest, he cannot help but think that's because his heart pounds so loudly it might trouble her peace of mind.

_The longer you wait, the harder it's gonna get. _

And it's already _so_ hard. All the words from the dictionary are crossing his mind and he knows he has to carefully pick only a few of them to convey his message. To being firm without scaring her. To convince her he's worth to cut the thread her life is hanging to.

_You don't even believe it yourself, how could she possibly take the bait?_

He's still trying to form some sentences when her phone violently starts vibrating on the nightstand. A quick glance towards it is enough to give him all the information he needs: 11:51 PM, Will, "U alright? I missed your voice today…"

He knows she's seen it too because when he brings his attention back to her he catches her biting her lower lip for the briefest moment, her chin shivering almost imperceptibly. And then the phone goes dead silent and, as if by magic, her traits don't betray any more awkwardness. No need to pay for a prestidigitator when you can watch such a show for free.

She angulates her body back towards him, tries to create a diversion or genuinely make him laugh—that he cannot tell—with some repartee, such as "I don't care if you have to share your room with Dave for our next case, I'll still find a way to get into your bed," but all he can process is the way she unthinkingly makes her wedding band spin around her finger.

"You seem to like it very much, don't you?"

He's always been sort of hypnotized by her ring and its myriad of tiny round diamonds, by the way that, despite all these years, they still spark as vibrantly as her magnificent eyes. Will did well.

For fuck's sake, he did well.

She nonchalantly answers his question with a shrug, her eyes still landing everywhere except to his face and, just when he believes she's finally going to say something, her phone wakes up again, saving her with its bell. It's 11:54 PM and Will is pushing to get a response too.

"Well baby, not only your voice… ;)" the text reads.

His eyebrows go up as his mouth tightens in irritation and, when at 11:55 PM a new message pops up and he can distinguish Will putting a hand into his boxers despite the miniature picture, he lets escape an acid sneer.

"You can pick up your phone, you know. He's your husband after all."

That's a fact that shouldn't be overlooked, especially in this situation. Even though it consumes his whole body and soul, her husband will always get priority over him thanks to his status. _Try wearing an explosive belt next time, maybe you'll get a chance._

"Would you be jealous, Doctor Spencer Reid?"

It's her turn to let out a laugh—a teasing one this time—as she furtively strokes his left cheek with the back of her fingers. He stops her short half-way by placing his hand on hers, his heart pounding hard against his ribcage. The time has come to face the truth and it's more terrifying than jumping into the void.

"I told you yesterday that I would wait a bit before taking my turn. Well, I've been thinking a lot and I want you to listen to me carefully. Because after I'll be asking you this question, I won't play to this silly Truth or Dare game anymore. Never," he insists, his jaw as sharp as a block. "Just one last time and we're done, do you hear me?"

"What are you saying…" she snorts.

"I'm not kidding, JJ. If you don't want to take me seriously, then I'll just leave. It's up to you," he says, and it reminds him such a terrific memory that it makes his stomach distort.

But he won't chicken out, _oh no_, not anymore. In sixteen years she might actually have never seen him as serious and determined as now. At least, this is what her eyes are screaming. She's like paralyzed for a minute, incapable of blinking, and he thinks that he's never imagined having one day this effect on someone, let alone the one he loves the most.

After what feels like an everlasting period of time, she finally nods and says, "I do."

"Good," he takes a sharp breath. "Jennifer, Truth or Dare?"

"Dare."

_Until the end she wants to play._

"Leave him," he says, his voice barely louder than the sound of the movie traveling to their ears. "If you love me, please leave him. I know that I am asking a lot, I-I know that you have the hardest part in all this mess, but I cannot continue like this. It's like I keep seeing ourselves in this fucking jewelry store playing to a game just to make a psycho happy. We deserve to be more than that, JJ. Look at us, we're incapable of seeing each other, saying tender things to each other, making love to each other without asking 'Truth or Dare?' first! And I know you must be so scared because of your boys and what all of this would mean for them. But we could make this work. I know it because you love me and I love you too."

He's almost teary now, fuck; he cannot process how this physical reaction can even ever happen as he feels as drained out as a stream under the heatwave. And how he wishes he could grasp for some air, God, only one breath that would regulate the fire burning within.

He has done it. He cannot believe he has done it.

That was his first time saying_ I love you_.

And his whole body is boiling now, like an inferno ready to consume acres and acres of jungle. He finally said_ I love you_ to her and _this_ only makes him want to scream, laugh, hug her, kiss her, love her more.

Except that the one to be concerned doesn't seem to be sharing his enthusiasm. Naked, barely wrapped up into the white sheet, she looks more in that instant like a lost child, scared by the gaudy, flashing lights of the night, rather than a woman who just experienced a passionate break with her lover. _Shit_.

After a noticeable moment of hesitation, filled up by silences and interstices, Spencer finally understands that he has no choice but to step into the fire.

"Jennifer, please say something…"

The thing is, she doesn't. Doesn't speak, doesn't move, doesn't breathe or blink. But her eyes, those precious little diamonds he immediately fell for when they first met, they're speaking for themselves. They're watery and alarmed and tormented. And when they shut down and her head faces the floor, her golden hair hiding her from the world like a curtain, his heart squeezes until being ripped apart. Through all the pain, something's clicked.

It's crystal clear, even. Living the rest of his life without her in it would feel like dying.

And by in it, he means as a couple. Their friendship can be screwed for all he cares.

_I already promised I would never be able to go back._

When a loud ringtone echoes through the room at 12:01 AM—the one dedicated to her husband's upcoming call that makes him want to shatter the device in hundred of pieces against the wall—he seizes her chin harshly, forcing her to finally acknowledge the mess he's become. In a way, he knows it's his last chance to get his happy ending.

"Leave him," he says again, this time more desperate. Broken.

She stays still for a couple of seconds, as charming as a porcelain doll. Smooth and cold too. And when her lips gently caress his fingers, the tip of her nose nibbling against his joints, his vision instantly blurs.

It's burning. Burning everywhere.

Until she says _it_.

"I already told you. I wanted this, too much. But I don't want to break my family either."

When he was six, a fire erupted and ravaged a residence located three blocks away from his house. He remembers clearly hearing the shouts from the neighborhood that jolted him awake during that night; the glowing plumes of smoke that encircled the district like the wings of a Phoenix. He fell asleep against the windowsill, too exhausted by confronting academical theory with practical reality for what seemed like hours and, when the sun rose in the wee hours of the morning, highlighting the building's soot-covered carcass, it was already over. Without actually witnessing it, he had learned that a fire enters its decay stage when it has consumed all the combustibles and oxygen has considerably decreased, putting an end to the blaze. That sounds comforting, like the refreshing scent of plant oils, bacterial spores and ozone that emanates from the earth after the deluge, but every scientific or firefighter would tell you it's actually the longest, riskiest phase that can last for days, even _weeks_.

That's right. He used to walk past this building to go to school, and for weeks he discerned the white fumes steaming from the framework, felt the inhaled ashes settling at the bottom of his lungs.

As a survival reflex, Spencer starts coughing.

"I-I have to take this… I'm sorry, Spence."

In another context, he would have been devastated by the sound of her sobs, by the vision her face torn with pain. After all, maybe he's not the only one in this room with a broken heart.

But the only thing he does is staring at her without seeing her, standing up without knowing where to go. Emptiness.

_ In the beginning God created the heaven and the earth._

_And the earth was without form, and void; and darkness was upon the face of the deep._

And now someone's speaking and it is not him nor to him. He only catches snatches of conversation like "tired", "long day", "miss you too". In another context, he would have scoffed at those words, said that she's always been a better liar than himself, to the point that she would be able to convince a geographer that the Caspian Sea was bordering France and the Mediterranean Sea Azerbaijan. But now he's not so sure anymore. Maybe he has imagined things all along. Maybe her heart has always belonged to Will, the sole love of her life.

Well, she just admitted it so you can scratch the _maybe_.

He picks up his clothes with weary gestures, put them back on him without caring if the pants are on the right side or the shirt buttoned. Who would he even dress for now, the brunette next door? _She's got a girlfriend. Not you._

It's plain silent again and it occurs to him that her call might have come to a sudden end and he didn't even notice it.

_You always notice everything_, Gideon once said to him during a chess play. _That's why you're good at your work. And you know what, that might be more impressive than being a genius._

Well, it's plain silent except for her quiet cries that guide him to the door like a procession.

Almost there. He looks down a second, closes his eyes. He'll even miss the mist's scent.

_You're losing your mind now. Guess it's time to leave._

So he does. And when the door shut behind him, he cannot tell what is hurting him the most. Maybe that's the fact that he left. Or maybe that's the fact she didn't even try to stop him.

Either way, it's over. That's a fact.

* * *

**A/N: Hey everyone! I am sorry for the delay but this chapter has really been emotionally tiring and I had to write and rewrite it to finally be satisfied with the result :) Anyhow, I truly hope that you'll enjoy it as well, don't hesitate to share your thoughts :D**


	4. Daylight Saving Time

**_If the clock should stand still, what would you do?_**

_07:24 AM_

So that's what it's like.

An eternity ago, when he was scrawnier and nerdier and lamer than he's probably ever been – in a few words, during the long but not so quiet river that were high school years – he used to play _Without You_on repeat on his walkman. Not that he was a fanatic of romantic pop songs, nothing like that (we're talking about someone who doesn't have a clue who Adele is and that might have heard _My Heart Will Go On_twice at most). Let's just say it was a tactic to fit in and prevent more bullying _(that, my friend, should have known would be vain from the start)_by understanding who was this Mariah Carey all of his classmates were talking about and why they liked her music so much. The voice was good _(impressive, even)_but it sounded like running a marathon under drizzle: sticky, exhausting, deafening. A pure display of agony. That's the way he'd always imagined how break-ups would feel.

Bullshit. It's full katana mode. No time to catch your breath that your viscera are already getting the floor dirty, liters of blood dripping across the tiles. It's powerful enough to court circuit the brain and not show any signs of improvements in any foreseeable future.

He's only blinked twice in the last ten minutes.

Maybe fifty times more since she said _it_. Who cares.

The sun washes over the room, rays of light tickling his motionless flesh, in search of an annoyed smile, a shoulder shrug, some rolling eyes, anything.

The only thing it gets is fingers crisping around the still-ironed sheets when someone knocks at the door.

It starts spinning over there — thank God he hasn't got the bright idea to drown his sorrows in bourbon _yet_— and the flames trapped in his abdomen resume with greater intensity, warming up bones and organs.

_She's come to her senses. We're still alive._

He has that feeling, deep inside, that even the most hopeless cases can experience the craziest turn of events and that thought alone makes him run towards the door. The chair on his path takes a tumble — damn that sound; his shirt weaves in and out of his pants — damn that style. There's a desperate smile on his face when he flings the door wide and the handle burns his palm; his chest pounding as if he's just finished that fucking marathon.

Luke's mouth is half-opened; his breath is caught into his trachea and, when he can't hold it anymore, he finds no way but to expel it with a light scoff.

"Hey, Reid," he starts, cautious. "The jet is ready, we're about to go. Wanna grab a coffee first?"

So that's what it's like, too.

_No I can't forget tomorrow_  
_When I think of all my sorrow_  
_When I had you there but then I let you go_

Mariah was telling no lies.

His hand slips to his side; his thumb presses across his palm, tries to stop the music playing in his head the same way he used to shut down his walkman as soon as Alexa Lisbon would walk past him.

Nearly twenty-five years later, he hasn't changed much. And his love life remains a complete disaster.

He steps aside from the door just a tad, and it's enough for Luke to finally take a closer look. See the darker-than-usual shadows under his eyes, the wrinkled, not so buttoned-up shirt hanging out of his slacks, the knocked over chair in the background. That hits him hard.

"Wait, have you been up all night?"

He doesn't want to engage in that kind of discussion that he knows will only make him crumble if they dig just a tad deeper (a single _something you want to talk about?_would do just that).

So he simply retorts, "coming".

He had already packed everything yesterday before going to her room, he'd only hoped they would be too busy making love and serenading to each other all night long to even think about doing chores afterward.

So, when he reappears thirty-two seconds later with his messenger bag slid across the shoulder, his hair a mess like a sweet chestnut tree caught in the storm, and he takes a last-longing look at the room at the end of the corridor, he's well aware that the vision his friend is getting might be quite pathetic.

"No offense, man," Luke cuts in, eyebrows-raising, contorted-smiling face. "But you absolutely look like crap."

_No shit._

* * *

_2:45 AM_

Spencer has trouble sleeping that night. Thinking about what he did — what he should've, what he shouldn't've done — and what he will — what he should, what he shouldn't do — turns out to be verbena, melatonin and zolpidem's evil twin.

There's no present time except in this text. Spencer's mind is constantly being quartered between what he _did_— what he should've, what he shouldn't've done — and what he _will_— what he should, what he shouldn't do. Good luck finding sleep with a mind like that.

So, that night, Spencer can't sleep because of what he did and what he, _theoretically, hypothetically_, will do.

Same goes for the night after. And after, after, after.

* * *

_10:50 PM_

They crash down in their motel in Lakewood, CO, the same way they do in any other city: with a feeling of emergency glued to the skin and a hole inside the stomach that only bundles of clues and evidence can fill.

That one's particularly urgent, the kind that can make any of them snap every minute they lose in conjecture. They have every reason to think a massacre willcouldtake place in one (if not more) of the town's high school, which is obviously out of the question, especially not after Columbine.

He has every good reason not to fall asleep tonight.

Knees up against his chest, back against the wall, and mind against every form of attention, he lets his pen continuously slam against the last report the local detective handed over to them.

Moments like these feel the worst. They make him reconsider everything he's achieved, everything he's been through. What's the worth of having a brain that can store thousands of pieces of knowledge when only one draws his attention?

Damn, that sounds like another level of corny.

He's morphed back into his moody, teenage-like self those past few weeks. That's for sure different from what he experienced after Maeve's passing — no one in his circle besides JJ would understand anyway — but he guesses that's enough to give some cues to the best profilers in America.

Last week, Tara questioned him about his mother with a concerned expression, persuaded something might have happened to her as she was trying to decrypt his saturnine eyes. He'd just said, "oh no, she's fine. Well, as much as she can be." He turned away as soon as the words came out of his mouth, too ashamed of not visiting his mother for so long _(you know what Charles Henkel would say)_. Yesterday, Emily handed him her card's therapist after noticing his tenth or eleventh yawn that morning _(it would have been mala praxis not seeing it)_. "You'll see, she's great, she helped me so much when I had those terrible insomnias," she'd said, and he'd flapped a hand at her in response, his best-looking, confident smile on his lips: "don't you worry, this is nothing a good coffee cannot cure." Today, he overheard Penelope asking JJ with what she thought was a hushed tone: "Is there something to worry about Reid? Do you know what's going on with him?" He couldn't help but hold his breath at this point, impatience running over his skin. "No. I mean, nothing that I'm aware of," she replied, eyes flirting with her shoes. He slightly coughed in response, incapable of telling if he was feeling relieved or way bluer. A mix of both, surely.

Except for discussing working, technical details, they haven't talked since that night. It feels like a pretty mature decision, not constantly reaching back to her; displaying an attitude that implies _It's over and I get it, I won't push_. He clearly remembers how Thomas, his roommate during his undergraduate days in Caltech, used to embark in the opposite direction: it was always cringey, never worthy.

There is nothing he can get from this fucking report, yeah high school sucks, wannabe high school shooters and their cryptic threats suck even more, everyone gets that. But, come on, law officers should learn how to construct a reliable argument if they really were looking for saving the day and not harp on about #ThoughtsAndPrayers when only sorrow and gnawing anger are left.

His phone chimes next to him, and this tinkling, brief sound alone triggers collywobbles. It's like Savannah, Baton Rouge, Saint-Louis, Orlando, Odessa, Grand Rapids, Spokane, and Philadelphia combined all over again. And Lakewood, if only.

He rushes to his phone, the previous statement about being the biggest person in the room's all gone. Sometimes, it's just too hard to fight back.

He exhales. It's Emily. "Please, tell me you found something. This is driving me crazy."

"Not yet," he types back, "maybe we should rest and think about it with leveled heads tomorrow."

Little does he know, neither of them will. Sometimes, it's just too tempting to jump in feet first in the heat of the action, let the flames crunch the skin, carbonize it. The sorts of behaviors that he couldn't rationalize even if he'd like to.

The same that makes him head straight towards her door. It's not slightly ajar as it used to be in other cities (contradictory signals come tumbling out in his head: it's_Thank God she stopped doing that stupid thing_and_Damn why did she stop, we made it work so good_.) He knows she's still up — light seeps from under the door and he swears that, after all those years, he's learned to discern the delicate echo of her breath from meters away — that let them plenty of hours to resume what they were doing weeks ago plus, if they have some stamina left, they could solve this case thanks to the bond they share and that no one else in their team can match.

Just a soft knock and she'd instantly know it's him, maybe hesitate before taking her decision but ultimately would open up and say, "Hey, I didn't expect you. Trouble sleeping?" He would step in only slightly to mimic some sort of privacy and he'd bluntly say: "Ours is a nocturnal love story that only day blinds can see, can't you see it? Maybe we're not meant to observe dawn together but as long as we can watch the shooting stars, I'm fine. Are you?"

Again, sounds like a teenage song.

His fist hangs up in the air, a couple of inches away from the door and he's suddenly not so sure anymore if he wants to resemble Thomas. Some fantasies might just better stay imprisoned without parole if that what's best in the biggest scheme of their lives. His arm goes back to his side, his legs to his room and his attention to the massacre they _will_prevent.

It should occur to him that she, too, can discern his breath.

This is not a breakthrough, solo record; it's a featuring. Can't wait to hear it.

* * *

_11:29 PM_

Ambien tastes funny.

* * *

_7:21 AM_

Spencer Reid can be predictable in every sense of the word. He knows Start Trek by heart, loves his sugary coffee, takes the train 67 in the morning, remembers everything.

But there's this thing that has been happening for several days now (something like sixteen, or maybe nineteen) that is totally new to him.

Well, this can be _more_than one thing, actually. It's spreading, like a kaleidoscopic pattern on the ground.

It has started with his treasured, far-famed sugary coffee. Without realizing it, he had added one, two, three new lumps of sugar to its already way too sweet coffee for one, two, three days in a row. Not any cravings for glucose whatsoever, just an oversight.

Still acceptable.

But then Penelope came to find them in the bullpen, all excited as she had succeeded to retrieve some childhood, cherished photographs that she thought were long lost because stored on a _very_out of service hardware. She showed them a picture of her parents and herself posing in front of the Jefferson Street's sign in San Francisco — because, why not just do this when you have the Golden Gate Bridge vista point only a couple of miles away — before pointing to the sign and playfully ask: "tell me, boy wonder, how many streets are named after Thomas Jefferson in America?" Such a basic question. Yet, he had just stared at the ceiling for a whole ten seconds and finally said, "I don't remember."

You definitely should have seen the look on their faces.

But, again, just an oversight.

The thing is, it's starting to get trickier as of right _now_. He's pacing up and down in Union Station looking for his train, flows of workers on his way who are bringing with them puddles and bad temper from the outside. In fifteen years, he's only made a single mistake on his daily commute to Quantico — he was still high on Dilaudid after shooting himself up in the middle of the night and had embarked on the Northeast Regional towards Boston.

At this hour of the day, there's no better option than to hop on the Amtrak 67. He's been doing it for years and, except for some service disruption every now and then and overcrowded carriages, he's been rather satisfied by this train journey that allows him to continue, finish and pick up a new book in a timeframe of 45 minutes. No need to be an MIT graduate to know that train 67 departs at 7:20 AM; in fact, it goes like clockwork.

Yet, he's been waiting for too long at a platform too far away from where he should've headed right after exiting the metro.

He's out of breath when he finally reaches the correct, reassuring platform. That awakens some dry, deep coughing in his chest, as if he hadn't put enough on a show by running like a fool to get here.

(That's another thing, the incessant coughing, that maybe we should save up for another time.)

Just before his eyes, the Amtrak 67, that has never appeared in such pristine condition, sets towards Quantico.

It's burning eyes, burning throat, burning stomach. Yup, seems that there he is, in the appendix of the book he's always dreaded to finish, in the final chapter that tells: Spencer Reid is finally learning the ordinary art of forgetting.

* * *

_3:06 PM_

They haven't moved around the country for a little more than a week now, and he might admit that it's starting to itch him, this need to get elsewhere and come into contact with the field's reality, far from the Bureau's paperwork and regular tempo.

The same song is still being played on repeat in the office. Luke teases Penelope, who teases him back with way more force. Matt becomes soft as cream every time he mentions his soon-to-be-born daughter; Tara's never against an after-work drink; Emily spends too many nights cloistered in her office. Last but not the least, JJ is a certified Master of Illusion and Dave observes him non-stop.

And it's not even like he doesn't have better, more interesting things to do, like catching the Chameleon. Nope, he prefers to be his shadow, taking a look at him whenever he can, frowning his eyebrows here and there. When David Rossi has something in mind, there's no way to make him forget it.

The team has just finished debriefing their open cases and it's been decided they'd take a well-deserved break by playing cards at the rounded table. Ugh, not again. Tara has shuffled the cards when Penelope presses her palm hard against the mahogany surface.

"Oh, _Seigneur_! That's already the second time this week this freaking clock stops working!" She curses, her eyes fixed on the large wall clock which doesn't get past 3:06 PM. "Why do we still own this kind of–of non-connected stuff, by the way? Haven't I shown you, during all those years, that the Internet was the best thing humanity ever invented?"

"Would you calm down," JJ interjects, eyes rolling, "it's just a clock."

_That_, was clearly an unnecessary thing to say. His mouth distorts despite his will as he can't comprehend which commonly accepted, unspoken rule should prevent him from clapping back at his ex best-friend-with-benefits-_almost_-turned–girlfriend in the middle of a room filled with profilers.

Oh, maybe that's this thing we call _professionalism_.

Nothing obliges him in his employment contract to stay playing cards with her, though. That's why he stands up and says, "Sorry guys, I'll pass for once. At least all of you will get a chance to win, hooray!"

"Man, as much as you want to forget it, JJ already beat you," Luke says matter-of-factly. "Just before Rossi's wedding, remember?"

"I must admit this one's hard stop thinking about."

In another timeline, he'd have thought she'd have stayed immobilized on her chair, waiting for the storm to pass. Except he's stuck in this crazy reality where she winks at Luke and makes a high five with Tara instead. Screw this.

He only wants to be left alone when he reaches his desk. Get some meaningful time to bury his nose in a book and prepare his upcoming teaching classes; a routine that has never felt more therapeutic.

A voice beside him shatters his dream.

"Hey, kid, not so fast. You know I am, too, way too good for playing cards with them." Rossi says, a cocky smile on his face.

"Well, maybe we should think about launching our own private poker parties. Not sure it'd comply with the Bureau policies, though."

"True. But, you know, when you stood up there," Rossi points up to the conference room, "I was saying to myself: no matter how good this kid is, he's always up to kicking everyone's butts when it's about showing who's the best. Maybe I'm wrong. Anyway, that was just a thought," he brushes away with his left hand.

Here we go again. Both of them know it's far from being _just a thought_. It's time to adjust his tactics, as Ivan Lendl did against John McEnroe during the 1984 French Open final.

"I guess it's what we call _growth_. You know that I turned thirty-eight last week, right?"

"You know that I've been married four times, _right_?"

Well, that looks more like a double fault. He thinks for a few seconds, not sure how to handle this fully known information, and then settles for, "I'm not sure I'm following you…"

He tries to control his agitated eyelids, to stop some coughs from escaping his lungs. Meantime, the oldest profiler leans on the desk, shoulders forward and gentle smile on the lips — the exact attitude which, in David Rossi's handbook, means _Kid, the real talk is about to begin. _

"Look, I've been there, too. I know it's not easy and I know too well there's no magical cure except time. But whenever you wanna talk about it, I hope you know you can find me. I won't judge, I promise."

Upstairs, Matt throws his last cards on the table, visibly annoyed; Luke laughs at Penelope's sulking face and JJ raises her arms as a sign of victory. The exact same song, again and again.

Fuck, how he'd like to confess it out loud. How he loved it, even though how wrong it was, how much it costs to admit it. How being the homewrecker everyone's supposed to loathe would seem, right now, to be a much more enviable position than being the jinxed lover who can't move on in his life.

But that's not so simple. He has an ethics class he needs to work on, and a little perfect family across town who only asks to be left untouched.

He stares at Rossi again, shakes his head swiftly. "I'm sorry, Dave, I just don't seem to understand what you're talking about."

To which he replies, placing a hand on Spencer's shoulder, "Don't. Just be sorry you woke me up that other night in Philadelphia."

* * *

_8:17 PM_

She's smiled at him twice the last couple of days. That genuine, organic smile that could awake the sleeping farmers from_Noon: Rest from Work _— that smile's the only thing that pushed him out of bed this morning; be kind and don't say aloud it's _that_far-fetched.

But that's good news, right? It has to be good news. God, he's craving for some good news, so please tell him it is.

He's taken his car to come to work this time. Empty coffee cups from previous, distant excursions are scattered on the floor and the seat and the dashboard. That's a mess that he only gets minutes to fix. She'd said to the group: "I've got this report to finish but please don't wait for me, I've seen your pretty faces enough for today." As _if_.

Earlier in the evening, he overheard her telling Emily what her plans would be for tonight: "Will's taking his colleague's night shift, I guess I'll just wish the kids good night, run a steaming bath, maybe read a bit. You can say that's fascinating, you know." That must be a sign, no? She knew_for sure _he was ears dropping, it's not as if he even has better things to do after all. His smile widens, a rush of adrenaline pumping through his veins. Man, that's gonna be a hell of a night.

When he's sitting back against the wheel, empties are hidden out under the passenger seat and he hopes they won't get out of their den like the monsters in his mind usually do at night. Some golden strands catch his eyes in the outside rear-view mirror, visions of love tangling before his pupils, blinding him as the sun does after exiting the movie theater's intimacy.

Next thing he knows, she's already reached her car, keys in the ignition and radio blasting the evening news in this very section of the Bureau's parking. And, just like that, her Range Rover turns left and goes to the highway.

* * *

_11:00 AM_

Remember the coughing?

You better do, because it's gotten worse.

It starts at 7:00 AM, stretches to the mid-morning break, doesn't stop at noon, obliges him to add a tablespoon of honey to his afternoon's tea, calms down around midnight.

There's nothing to worry about. It's just a shitty psychogenic cough that will die as soon as he gets his life together — he's almost there, for real. Started going to the bar and met new people and paid a couple of beers to pretty girls. Yeah, the whole package. Why don't you believe it?

Nothing to worry about.

Meantime, he's coughing so much he's suffocating; he needs to yank his tie and unfasten his shirt's first three buttons — damn, sometimes it feels like dying and he hates the fact that he's come to know this sensation well enough — while shutting himself away in the men's restroom, somewhere he knows only his own reflection can feel sorry for him.

But he's a fed and has read all of Foucault and Deleuze surveillance studies; he should know better than dreaming about some sorts of privacy in today's society.

That's why he doesn't even flinch when Garcia barges in the bathroom, pinky blush perfectly blending with her crimson cheeks.

"There you are, finally!" she almost screams, right hand tensed around the doorknob, the other holding her iPad against her breasts like armor.

"Can I help you with something?" he asks in a monotone, his voice hoarse.

"Yes, you can. Answer this question: is there an epidemic I didn't hear of?"

"I–I doubt so? I mean, well, there potentially is a strain of pneumonic plague in Madagascar…"

"In the States, Reid, the States!"

"Then, no, the H3N2 outbreak has been curbed months ago—"

"Then why are you coughing non-stop?" she now yells thunderously. "My dove, I swear to God that if you've started smoking, I'm gonna make you feel worse than what we're gonna see in this freaking conference room in a minute and, believe me, that one's not easy."

He's turned on the faucet, the room-temperature water's too mild; he'd beg for something extremely hot or desperately cold to shake him up for good instead, those fucking burns and chilblains would hurt like hell but, hey, let's face it: he'd at least have a plausible reason to scream.

He coughs in his elbow, cleans his hands once again.

Eyes in the mirror, he catches a glimpse of his collarbone, revealed under the loose seam of his shirt. Instant flashback of her lips here, rolling fingertips on the skin, waves of lust crashing against the bones, snapshot of the bygone days. _Shit_, not again.

When he focuses his attention again on Garcia, her fingers have turned white around her iPad and her jugular vein draws a curve on her neck.

Sorry, he wasn't listening. What did she say?

* * *

_4:25 PM_

Even with their beloved private jet paid with taxpayer money, the journey to Fairbanks, Alaska, is never-ending.

Already six hours and twenty-two minutes in; roughly three more to go. He's read four ethnographic publications and one novel, taken a nap (his night was short as he'd chatted with a cute brunette named Max until late — first time in his life that he can say _I've sent five texts in a row and I didn't complain_), and now that his brain cells have been repleted with knowledge and rest, there he goes back having nothing more interesting to do than contemplating the skies from 39,000 feet up in the air.

He stays still for twenty-five minutes, deep thinking about air mass phenomena, meaning of life, and the most respectful-yet-funny pick-up lines he could use, and then he hears JJ sighing loudly across him as he catches glimpses of her wriggling in his peripheral vision. Inevitably, he becomes all intrigued and forgets everything about the troposphere, its atmospheric flow, and how to respond to Max's discreet-yet-continuous advances.

Truly, madly, _deeply_never-ending.

Thankfully, Emily takes the cue, too, and speaks up her mind for both of them: "Hey, something's wrong?"

She sighs some more, closes her eyes for a brief instant, a sheer sense of dismay washing over her face. And then, just then, she unveils a thin strand of silky hair hidden behind her ear. Not blonde; gray.

Oh. They are all staring at her now, their eyes converging towards this grayish lock of hair she holds between her fingers and you're damn right if you think that he wants to beat himself up for contributing to making her feel so exposed.

Tara is the first to jump out of her seat and save them from embarrassment as she says, "girl, I hope you know you're stunning, right?" a statement that makes almost every one of them nod in agreement and pushes Rossi into adding a very observation of his own: "_Tesoro_, you're as beautiful as Sophia Loren in _La Ciociara_!"

This could stop here. End the sequence with this comforting, heart-warming display of sympathy and brotherly love. Of course, it doesn't. In the midst of the excitement, Emily bumps her knee against his, whispers: "Spencer, you should say something, too."

"What? Why me?" he answers with the same tone.

"Well, aren't you guys best friends?"

Are they? They haven't spent more than five minutes alone in the same room since the break-up. A best friend should be the first one to know that he's been flirting with someone _else_(or, rather, that Max has been flirting with him and he went along with this mindless and kind of rebellious flow); a best friend should be told about her inner struggles, should be the one who takes her hand and says: "Jennifer, you'll always be the prettiest girl around here, gray hair or not."

They stopped being best friends the moment she said "Truth" but continued lying to herself, unless it was when he replied "Dare" and scrapped everything he swore he would never, ever, do. Anyway, their friendship can be screwed for all he cares, he still means it. There's no turning back from that.

He takes another glance at her and, yeah, there's no point denying that her cheeks have grown hollow as that some wrinkles have settled around the outer corners of her azure eyes. It's almost reassuring and comforting seeing her aging since, not so long ago, his biggest wish was to grow older beside her, observe the lines multiplying on her face and celebrate each of them for telling a story of their own. So, when Emily throws her most pressing stare at him, the first semblance of response that comes to his mind is _silver shines brighter than gold_.

It resonates with him; it's honest and raw. So he says it again, out loud this time. "Silver shines brighter than gold."

The jet lands in Alaska in a flash.

* * *

_9:11 PM_

When he judges that he is old enough to start writing his memoirs, Spencer will certainly mention, on the trivia section of his own book, that by the time he was thirty-eight, he'd already visited thirteen times the state of Georgia for job-related purposes only.

It's Saturday evening and they're back to A-Town, the vibrant capital of the South in which parked cars still play Outkast's music at full volume. The team has scattered in different hot spots in Little Five Points, hoping to catch their unsub red-handed—this fucker has already lured and killed three young black women in the neighborhood and just thinking about the number of misogynistic and racist murders he's seen during all his career makes him want to throw up.

Twisting the knife in the wound, Emily has decided to partner him up with JJ. He was about to protest when she said their names one after the other, but the _kid, don't even think about it _look that Rossi cast him was threatening enough to force him to shut up and go along with his boss's order instead.

And here they are, sitting at an outdoor table in the vicinity's trendiest bar, a red wine glass for her and a Belgian beer for him that neither of them dares to touch. It already smells like spring, cigarette smoke blending with the warm, heavy air of the South; the sound of laughter, live acid jazz music, and glasses knocking together all around them. Staring at them distractedly, you could think they're a couple enjoying their getaway weekend to the city — that's kind of the plan, actually — but you'd just need a few more seconds to see through the façade, observe her shifty eyes, his lackadaisical attitude. Yeah, no wonder why the waiter offered to split the bill in half.

When the music grows louder and the night thicker, they know for sure that nothing will be happening for tonight — the profile they built has told them their unsub would follow his routine and hit at dusk; needless to say, none of the team members has witnessed anything suspicious yet.

_Meaning, we'll have to fake enjoying some beers at least one more night. _

He's about to get the fuck out of here, hop behind the wheel and drive to their hotel where he could at last text Max, perhaps call her, but JJ touches absentmindedly the edges of her glass with her index and says, "Mind if we stay just a bit more? I like the music. Reminds me of New Orleans."

Sure, these might be such incredible memories, it must feel good living them over again. He shrugs, takes a sip of his lukewarm beer. Guess he's going to text Max right here, why not just do that.

He's received two messages when he pulls out his private phone from his pocket's slacks. The first one reads: "The Library of Congress Thomas Jefferson Building will be exceptionally closed starting Monday, February 10, until Friday, February 14 due to maintenance works. Our apologies for any inconvenience caused."

Shit, one of his favorite reasons to leave his apartment goes out the window.

He can't help but smile, though, when he sees the second text. It's from Max. She says: "Hi handsome, hope you won't linger in Georgia for too long. My sofa's waiting for you 😜 (emoji with the tongue sticking out, in case your old phone doesn't read it)"

Indeed, it doesn't. He reads her message over and over, wondering how they got to the point they're at now. It's been so quick, in a way; they were texting for weeks, only sharing some flirting innuendos here and there, nothing much. And one night, as he left the workplace as drained and blasé as ever, she'd asked him, "Want to grab a coffee together?" to which he'd replied, "Let's do this." The coffee turned into a beer, the beer into a gin and next thing he knew he was undressing her with spirit, eating her out on her sofa.

Talks about character development. He's not sure he wants to de-escalate the situation any time soon, though. It's not the kind of relationship he would have dreamed of or strived for, but at least it feels carefree and, right now, this is everything he's asking for.

So he types back: "I'm longing for you, too."

When he puts the phone back in his pocket, JJ has finished her drink and asks point-blank: "How is she doing?"

"Who are you talking about?"

"Your girlfriend," she lowers slightly on her chair. "How is she doing?"

A sudden flush creeps across his cheeks, just like when he was five and his father used to catch him in the dead of night sat next to the family's room bookshelves. He shakes his head to dissipate this unexpected manifestation of William Reid from his long-term memory (_you're wasting your time_) and knits his eyebrows.

"Who told you?"

"You just did," she shoots back, positioning her elbows against the table. "But that's not very hard to tell, you know. You spend more time reading your phone than a book. The other day, you came to work with the same burgundy shirt you were wearing the day before. And I could even recognize the scent of Coco Mademoiselle when I passed you by on my way to the coffee machine. Tell me if I'm wrong, but I'd be surprised to learn this is your new perfume. What do you think?"

Now is the time he wishes he could be the kind of guy that would brag about his new conquest in his ex's face; being the embodiment of nowadays pop songs and just say _See? I've been movin' on since we said goodbye. _

Of course, that's not the kind of guy Spencer Reid is, or could one day become. He's the kind of guy that learned first the conjugation of the verb "to justify".

"It's relatively new, I don't even know if—"

"It's okay, Spence." She cuts him off. "I'm happy for you."

She stretches out over the table, presses her fingertips against his hand, stays still for a second or two. It feels like before the _before_, when they used to be best friends and neither Dilaudid, the Pentagon nor Afghanistan could separate them.

Habituation still does not occur and, when they talk like this, it's like reliving the first time they met all over again, her confident "Good morning, I am Jennifer Jareau, the new Communications Liaison, but that's okay if you call me JJ. You might be Spencer Reid, am I right?", followed by his awkward, somewhat labored, "Yeah—I mean, yes, Spencer Reid, it is. Nice to meet you."

He smiles slightly but wholeheartedly, decides to make a truce just for tonight. To the good memories of Georgia.

"How are the boys doing, by the way? I haven't seen them in a while."

It stings. _That what happens when you decide not to be friends with their mother anymore._

"Don't tell me, they're always calling after you. They're good. Excited about their upcoming trip to Disney World, that's for sure."

Disney World. Only 15 miles away from Lake Louisa. They're going full circle tonight.

"That's good—no, that's great. Is Will coming too, like family vacations?"

She looks away towards the band that has just finished playing their jazzy rendition of the 90s but in fact timeless hit _No Scrubs_. The waiters shuttle back and forth, taking orders, serving drinks, clearing tables. When she's done staring at this incessant ride, she nods and says, "He is."

"I'm sure you guys are gonna have a blast. I'm happy for you, I really am."

It sounds true. Maybe because it is.

"Yeah. Me, too."

A waiter drops his tray in the distance.

* * *

_5:24 PM_

Looking back, the first days weren't the toughest.

They had the sound of a buzzing string; of this metallic, occasionally piercing noise that gets stuck between the teeth and the gum and resonates against the palate.

The following months felt — scratch that, _feel_— as hollow as a musician playing on a stringless guitar. Fingers pound on the pickguard, emit a repetitive _pop pop pop_which is not rhythmical enough to turn into a tune worth being hummed, let alone remembered.

Following Maeve's passing, he once put his hands on a guitar he'd found in a junk shop during one of the rare times he'd venture outside. He played the first chords of _Under the Bridge_that he'd memorized since Penelope forced him to accompany her in a murky bar in Columbia Heights back in 2007. She was crushing hard on the bass player whose band only swore for Red Hot Chilly Pepper — they had played this song twice that night — and, through the cigarette and blunt smokes, he had discerned how his fingers were moving on the neck and somehow understood how this particular choreography could be dissected before being put back together again. It was past 2 AM when he had first taken the guitar that was now his own, let his hands shift from D major to F sharp for a while, until a series of thuds made the floor vibrate under his feet. His neighbor from below was yelling: "Shut the fuck up, I have to wake up at 5, nerd". He got up and placed the guitar above a piece of furniture where it might still be gathering dust.

He's never dared touch it again, not even now when his sleep is on the blink, his lifestyle's dubious, his memory acts up still.

Oh, and also, Max dumped him by text a week or so ago—not particularly an insulting move when you recall that most of their relationship happened through the phone. She wrote: "sorry to do it this way, but I thought about it over and over, and you're definitely not ready to commit to a relationship". And later: "we can stay friends if you want to". To which he just replied "sure", not sure himself if he was answering her first or second statement.

His definition of the term "break-up" becomes more and more refined. He just wishes he could forget it, too.

Talking about memory, he's been through it all to fix it: blood tests, cognitive tests, IRM and even through this fucking brand new retina test that was the most uncomfortable of all — he might have been shot and tortured and poisoned to anthrax in the past, he surely had never felt that grateful for his premium FBI health insurance before.

His legs fidget while the annoying _pop pop pop_resonates in his ears. Doctor McPherson stands before him, the result of his last neurologic examination in her hands. He tries to focus on the rustling sound the pieces of paper make when they're rubbed together, only to give up a few seconds later.

"You can put your mind at ease, young man. It's all negative. Alzheimer still hasn't knocked at your door," she says.

He lets out the breath he sure knew he was holding and inhales straight after, relief filling his lungs.

The battle is not won just yet, though. He still hasn't received any kind of response that could explain where those terrible blanks are coming from.

So he lists them out once again — the sugary coffee, the simple questions he cannot answer anymore, the missing trains; some are new and some others are already forgotten — and he can't suppress the worried stutter that comes with this litany. He catches his breath while Doctor McPherson stares through him, and that expression alone leaves him almost as uneasy as his last encounter with Cat Adams.

She finally sits down, rearranges her files, and her pens and her white coat. Everything's perfectly aligned, crease-free.

"You know well enough that transient global amnesia can be caused by many factors and your history of migraines doesn't help, nor your line of work. Have you investigated traumatic cases, lately?"

He briefly closes his eyes, hates to admit it. "I've seen it worse."

There's a fleeting instant of quiet during which he hears nothing but the interference of silence. That could almost make him smile, this sudden reluctance to speak, until the doc decides to sharpen her voice again.

"Perhaps in your personal life, then? We already discussed it during our first appointment, memory loss is one of the main symptoms of depression, I know you're aware of that. Is there something you'd like to talk about?"

Of course she's coming again with that fucking depression angle, he could've bet on it — she was ready to write him a six-week Lexapro prescription last time so he had to gather all of his most convincing persuasion techniques to stop her in her tracks (you guessed right: it worked). He wants to snort a little at her new attempt (like he's fourteen all over again) but it comes out as a cough instead.

"No, nothing to notice on that side either. It's actually as regular as clockwork."

_Don't forget to mention that the clock fails to provide the right hour most of the time. _

She inspects him even further; the same way someone who has heard lies throughout their career would do. This is something they do have in common; he's well aware that he'd never stand a chance in the interrogation room.

"If you don't observe any improvements in the upcoming weeks, could you at least promise that you'll consider trying the antidepressants?" she insists.

He forces himself not to roll his eyes, it's wiser to take the easy way out and leave this quagmire instead. "Yeah, sure. Anyway, I can't draw out, I have a lot of work waiting…"

"Of course. Feel free to call me if you need anything, Doctor Reid."

The rain starts pouring when he reaches his car. It makes _pop pop pop_against the roof metallic surface.

He's driving in circles around Van Ness, North Cleveland Park and Wakefield, doesn't accelerate at green lights, receives a bunch of "asshole" and other "hey jackass, are you gonna drive sometime?"

Rewind, replay. Don't pause.

He puts on the radio at the third "motherfucker", wishing the music will cover the insults. Bobby Womack's voice dives into the car's interior, singing _If you think you're lonely now, wait until tonight–_

Wait a minute. This is _too_deep, he doesn't need anything like that at the moment.

His breath starts getting labored; the dense traffic, mixed to this song and seasoned with the failure of his personal life is taking a toll on his psyche. He turns left, tries catching a break while rolling the window down, breathing the capital's saturated and humid air.

_Better. You can go on. _

When he changes the station, Babyface says _I only think of you on two occasions, that's day and night._

He punches the steering wheel, which set the horn off, which inspire cries of anger around him. Fuck this. All of this. Fuck the radio and the rain and the neurologist and the traffic and Max and JJ and Will and fuck the shitshow his life has become.

It's getting ridiculous still being upset about a relationship that ended months ago and was doomed as soon as it started. It's over, just move on.

"Move, you idiot!" the car behind him screams.

The rain pours harder, making a racket above his head. It's not _pop pop pop _anymore; it's a non-stop _popopopopopopopop _which electrifies his whole body. He strikes the accelerator pedal, turns the dial and put the radio at full volume. Babyface has made way for a voice he recognizes from the first intonation.

Mariah Carey has decided it was a great time to sing for both of them.

_When you left I lost a part of me_

_It's still so hard to believe_

_Come back baby, please_

_'Cause we belong together_

_Who else am I gon' lean on_

_When times get rough_

_Who's gonna talk to me on the phone_

_Till the sun comes up_

_Who's gonna take your place_

_There ain't nobody better_

_Oh, baby baby, we belong together_

When the song softens, and the last notes of the piano are abruptly cut off by the over-excited voice of the host, Spencer makes an illegal U-turn on Wisconsin Avenue, barely misses the BMW and the Range Rover between which he inserts himself before he suddenly pulls the car over and starts crying.

No need to act all surprised, this typically is the kind of meltdown that happens everywhere, from the thirteen years old who's ever had their heart broken upon leaving their summer fling who smelt warm sand and troubles — they should've left when they still had time, they would've escaped the crammed full cars and never-ending journey back to the city during which Mariah would be simultaneously scheduled on 40 different radio stations — to the middle-aged man who wonders where did his life go while listening to _Someday_. It happened to Penelope and Derek and Jennifer and Luke. I'm sure you've ever cried over a pop song, too.

These are only tiny, indiscernible tears at first; they glide over the humiliation and exhaustion of the past months and, when the topcoat has faded like watercolor on acid paper, uncovering some raw emotions and unceremonious strokes, well, that's precisely when his silent lament turns into uncontrollable sobs.

The rain outside can still be described as a downpour instead of drizzle when he opens up the car's door, looking for a wider space to unleash his sorrow. A minute passes by and he's already soaking wet — the perks of having his Volvo Amazon angled to the wind direction — when a couple of vehicles slow down as they approach him and ask, "Hey man, everything's alright?" to which all he has to answer is, "Why the fuck do you even care?"

He needs her back in his life like, right now. That, he cares. Mariah was right all along, from _Without You_to _We Belong Together_.

But life's not a song. Most of the time it's out of tempo, with meaningless verses and bland bridges. Life's the _pop pop pop _sound that will never turn into a romantic ballad or a summer hit.

He mutes the radio instead and dials the phone number he's seen once and knows by heart; wait for a few instants and, when the other party picks up, he immediately says: "Hey, doctor McPherson, it's me again, Spencer Reid. Would you mind prescribing me the antidepressants you talked about?"

* * *

_12:01 PM (or 11:01 AM)_

"Shit" is the first word he mutters, this morning at 8:30 (or 7:30). He had made a mental note to push back the hour of his old-fashioned, battery-operated quartz alarm clock in preparation for Daylight Saving Time but ultimately forgot to.

Working in a small group with the same colleagues for years has some unthought-of perks. Time and ordeals—but mostly time—have molded them into some sorts of Portuguese ceramic tiles: each pattern stands out on their own but looks overall the same upon passing the comparison test. Each remains symmetrical, convex and psychedelic, vibrant and enigmatic. They blend together until shaping a whole new fresco; the green becomes blue and the orange turns into magenta. A warm, soothing wave passes over his heart when he enters the conference room. Emily needs two cups of coffee to even start functioning, Tara cannot hide her bloodshot eyes, Rossi fails to suppress the insisting yawns which break free from his mouth. Definitely all the same.

He's the last to take his place around the table, interlocking the final tile to the rest of the ensemble. They're just a group of colleagues who are going to discuss what's on the agenda or, as his mother would say, they are knights from a modern era who have prevailed over hundreds of enemies together and are about to claim victory over every remaining battle. A fundamental chevalier is missing, though. Jennifer has taken some time off, probably enjoying the dense crowds, pricey shops, and eternal amazement provided by Disney World.

Sometimes, something else seems eternal: time. It is stretching, lacks form and substance, goes in every direction at once. What happened only yesterday seems to have taken place years ago; what occurred months ago could actually have unfolded just now. So, when Penelope flattens her hands against the table and throws a fuming look towards the big wall clock, Spencer sure has a sense of déjà vu.

"How many times will I need to say it? This clock stops working every freaking week! Is this some kind of test? Do you wanna know how far I can go when pushed over the edge? It might be it. God, I hate this clock." She rants, her face getting warmer as the words go out.

It is at least successful enough to pull Luke out of his lethargy. "Damn, this woman."

And, honestly, this little monologue has woken up Spencer, too. The facts are jostling to his mind and for the first time in months, he feels this urge to pick a couple and popularize them with this characteristic enthusiasm he used to be notorious for.

"Contrary to popular beliefs, time is not an indisputable fact, far from that. It's actually a social construct. Nature in itself is not that rigid, only the conventional rules are. The clock is broken only if you want it to be. Like it, you can decide to skip Daylight Saving Time and enjoy being one hour in the past while everyone else is getting flustered by the uncertainty of the future. You could also choose to experience the future before anyone else, living the dream of any fortune tellers. Or you could go along with the conventional flow of time and replace this clock for a more accurate one. Really, it's up to you and I think it's beautiful. Don't you?"

The way they're all looking at him right now, it is literally priceless. His radiant smile splits his face in half, creates a tingling sensation in his stomach. Like the hands on the wall clock, he's moving at his own pace. But always forward.

Adrenaline provides the organism a hell of a rush. It helps stay focus, take useful notes and convey great insights throughout the morning debrief. It feels like finding an oasis after crossing dozens of sandhills—a breeze of fresh on heated skin.

Perhaps it's adrenaline, perhaps it's Lexapro. Who cares, as long as the finality remains the same.

But adrenaline —or whatever you want to call it— fails to offer a long-lasting sensation. He hastily heads towards the coffee machine as soon as they leave the conference room, unable to resist the inner call for caffeine.

The coffee turns out to be more creamy-white than black (three lumps of sugar, one tablespoon of stevia and soja milk) when a voice behind startles him.

"I just knew I'd find you here."

Some situations are bound to never change, one hour forward or backward. The voice forces his brain to command a new rush of electricity to travel across his body, to leave the coffee untouched for a few more instants (he prefers it steaming hot). He doesn't even take the time to take her all in when he turns around.

"JJ? What are you doing here, weren't you supposed to be away in Florida?"

She cocks her head downward as she surreptitiously tucks a streak of hair behind her ear, a slow-motion sequence amid the effervescence of a Monday morning at the Bureau. And now he does see her: the casual fitting-striped top she'd never wear when in the office; the subtle yet glimmering stud earrings she last wore at Rossi's wedding; the shades under her eyes her foundation barely conceal. He tries his best to hide the sigh that escapes his lungs—fails. Somehow, seing her radiate that way doesn't hurt as much as he thought it would, and he definitely can't tell if this outcome should make him feel relieved or bothered.

"You're right, I was. Will and the kids are still there, probably waiting to hop on board the Big Thunder Mountain Railroad as we speak. The trip was… enlightening, to say the least," she says, a gentle smile on the lips.

Had he paid more attention, he would have read everything in this smile: a change, a glimpse of Georgia, an unbearable lightness. But the fact that he craves caffeine and has no desire to talk about that Stitch guy or this red lost fish, nor to be reminded about this or that hella annoying princess song prevents him from catching the obvious signs.

"That's great, thank you for stopping by," he says, grabbing his coffee cup. "You'll excuse me, I have a lot of work waiting."

"Wait."

Her tone doesn't let any room to a discussion: it is firm and raspy and appealing; no question marks. She takes a step forward, her dewy makeup's almost cakey under the rough spotlight and what goes through his mind is unclear, certainly due to the molecules staining after increasing the level of serotonin in the synaptic cleft_(it just might be the lack of coffee, though)_.

His vision doesn't get any clearer when Luke appears in the break room with (almost) the rest of the team in his steps.

"I can't believe you're here, JJ!" She hears for a second time. "Don't tell me that we're more entertaining than Stitch or Nemo, I wouldn't believe you." Duh.

This overexaggerated display of enthusiasm tires him more than the clock change, unless it's the drowsiness caused by his medications. He should consider drinking his coffee and go.

He should _really_consider it.

Emily is the first to notice, of course she is. She gasps slightly, with this tiny O-shaped mouth of hers, both excited and stupefied it finally happens. She's mastered the art of the poker face since she first became Lauren Reynolds, so she just says, "It's great to see you back, JJ! I'll catch up with you later."

When she turns around to face Rossi, standing at the top of the staircase like an Emperor watching the gladiators fighting for him in the arena, she finds him winking at her, not even trying to be discreet.

Meantime, Spencer is in the first row and hasn't noticed anything.

Tara might have gotten it too. She hugs her blondie hard and harder, says, "I knew you were stunning, but today you're just breathtaking. Isn't she, Spencer?"

Finally, he takes a sip of his disgustingly sugary coffee, the liquid is not hot enough to burn his palate nor cool enough to anesthetize his tongue. "Yeah, I guess she is."

It shouldn't come as a shock that Matt is the most reserved of the group. What is unfolding right before his eyes is a living nightmare for every father of five, happily married-for-more-than-ten-years husband. "It's good to see you," he succeeds to articulate, before going back to his desk.

Spencer, however, still hasn't seen it.

It's only the two of them again, alone amid the hundreds of employees gravitating around the office. A frail brunette—her name's Natalia and she works as a financial account manager, he heard it once back in 2013—is turning the printer to pieces; she slams it compulsively, likely to hinder it from devouring the thin stack of paper sitting in the compartment. She goes from "Come on" to "Fuck you", slams it even harder when it doesn't respond to her complaints (it makes an awful noise, comparable to the infamous _pop pop pop_) and oh shit, she's going to destroy it with her tiny fists, someone has to unplug it, the ink will leak everywhere and—

"Spence, can we talk?"

And, nothing. The printer is functioning again as if all it was waiting for was being on the edge of collapsing before being saved by an ultimate burst of lucidity. Natalia grabs the pile of scanned documents and turns her heels back to her desk, not caring in the slightest about the mess she made. This is the sort of energy he wishes he had.

"Maybe later? I'm afraid my workload cannot wait."

She nods sheepishly and, as she tries to decipher what to do with her hands—they rub her arms, hide in her jean's pockets, soothe her skin again—he is quite sure she's questioning rather she should let the clock stand still or push it forward no matter what it costs. There is something he hasn't mentioned to Garcia that maybe he should have: they should get rid of this ugly clock and start from scratch, period.

When he will play this scene and try to process it over and over in his head, whether it be in a few hours or in a few years, it certainly won't surprise him in the least bit that it was that same Garcia—the bubbly, without filter Garcia—who would be the one breaking the news to him.

But we should rather stick to the present. Penelope is hurtling down the stairs two at a time, almost tripping when she puts her feet on the carpeted floor. Her wedge Chelsea boots make a steady sound when they hit the ground—a variation of _pop pop pop_with more urgency; rather a _pac pac pac _that could make it to the charts. She rushes to JJ without giving him a look and grabs her left arm with a gentleness that contrasts too much with her agitated behavior it's sordid to watch.

"_Oh mon Dieu_, is that true what they say?" She asks, alternating between euphoria and desperation. "JJ, what happened to your wedding band?"

She has put JJ's hand on hers, pink with warm undertones, her long fingers naked from any type of jewelry. The ring is gone and the thin tan line is the unique indication that a five-thousand-dollar wedding band was devoutly worn for years on that finger.

His vision goes blurry and blurrier and this has nothing to do with the escitalopram, nauseating coffee, or Daylight Saving Time. She lets her hand rest on the Technical Analyst's while raising her eyebrows at him.

"Are you sure you don't have the time to talk?"

Oh, for this, he surely has all the time in the world.

**_THE END_**

**It was long overdue, uh? Thank you to every one of you for reading and commenting on this fiction. Despite the lack of sleep, overuse of French-English dictionary, and blank page syndrome, I am proud to say that I had a blast writing this story. Check your damn clock and peace out!**


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